


Simon Snow and the Star Baker

by AbessHildegard



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baking, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, No Spoilers, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-07-28 07:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20060125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbessHildegard/pseuds/AbessHildegard
Summary: "I'm serious, Simon. You have a real talent here. I think you're ready.""Ready for what?" Micah asks."Penny thinks Simon should audition for the Great British Bakeoff," Baz explains.





	1. The shots you don't take

**Simon**

"This is really good, Simon," Penny says with her mouth full of pastry and cream.

Baz nods solemnly, but waits until he's finished his bite to say anything, partially because he's still self-conscious about his fangs but more that he's a posh prat. "Definitely better than that one we had in Paris."

"Better than the French? Get in there," I say with a grin.

"Is that...lavender?" Micah asks.

"Yeah, lavender and lemon go great together, I've found."

Penny finishes her millefeuille and immediately grabs another one. I bite into mine, and I'm right pleased with it. The tang of the lemon isn't overwhelming the lavender like has happened before. And the pastry is flaky and hasn't been sogged up by the cream.

Even considering her mouth is full, Penny has a weird look on her face. "This is better than anything you could make with magic,"

"Certainly better than you could make with magic, Bunce," Baz smirks. Micah swats at him, eager to defend his new wife but with his mouth too full to strike back verbally. Penny's pants at cooking spells. Whenever it gets brought up, she chides Baz on his regressive gendering of labor. He's just pleased with himself, knowing that there's _any_ sort of magic Penny is pants at.

Penny doesn't even register the comment this time, because she's looking at me so earnestly I'm worried she's learned the right spell to stare into a person's soul. "I'm serious, Simon. You have a real talent here. I think you're ready."

I look away from her; it's easier when she gets all intense like this.

"Ready for what?" Micah asks.

"Penny thinks Simon should audition for the Great British Bakeoff," Baz explains.

Micah breaks out in a grin. "Aw man, I love that show! You should totally do it, Simon! I bet you'd win!"

I shrug. _Or I could not get on at all_, I think.

"You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don't take," an American-ism that Micah tried to convince us would make a great spell. A boost of courage, or maybe of luck. It never worked though, quite ironically. Right now, I wish it had.

I shrug again. "I don't even know how to apply." My tail is twitching again, and it manages to hit a spot of flour on the counter and push it onto the floor in a little cloud. I should really have wiped down when I finished, but it's hard to find the motivation to tidy up when your boyfriend can just cast a quick **Spick and span**. 

Penny grabs my hand. "Simon, I really think you should do this. What if I were to figure out how to apply? I'll make all the calls for you and everything."

I can't make phone calls. My therapist calls it executive dysfunction. I call it I have a hard enough time spitting out words in a proper order when I have time to think about them, and when I can see the person I'm talking to.

Baz has a dark look; well, darker than normal. We'll talk about that later, probably. Meanwhile, Penny's still got hold of my hand, looking at me so expectantly.

"Yeah, alright." I finally say.

Penny grins. "I'll do some research tonight, and then I'll be round tomorrow afternoon so we can start the application process together. Have scones ready."

"And maybe some real food as well, hmm?" Baz teases.

Penny and Micah don't stay much longer. They head out into the blustery night, casting **Dry as a bone** so that the wind doesn't whip the rain up past their umbrella. Penny's practically bouncing, like she herself has won something.

I take the last of the millefeuille and shove the whole thing in my mouth. Baz rolls his eyes at me, and I shrug, because he and I both know it wasn't going to keep well overnight.

**Baz**

The next day, Bunce and Snow are sat at the kitchen table, a big plate of scones steaming next to them. They're too hot to eat, not that that's stopped Simon. He's eaten two and a half already.

I sit in the living room, reading a book that is attractive only in that it's not about price structures, for a change. It's the first day of Christmas break, and I'm having that out-of-body experience that comes when you've been revising for weeks and suddenly there's no exams left to study for. It's got me distractable, certain that there's something I'm forgetting. My eyes keep darting to Snow. The gorgeous boy has got a mouth rimmed by scone crumbs, so what else is new? He hasn't left the house today, too busy cooking again, so I've not bothered to spell his wings invisible. Truth be told, I quite like their look on him. 

It really is a pleasant activity, watching Simon Snow and knowing he's mine. More pleasant than reading, even, though I can feel centuries of Pitches rolling in their graves at the thought.

But alas, at three o'clock I have to stop staring at him and go into the other room for my therapy call. Yes, I'm in therapy. After years of Simon's pleading (plus being able to see real progress in his mental state), I finally agreed to do my own video call with his therapist. It's supposedly a violation of professional boundaries, the same therapist treating both people in a relationship separately. But, well, there's not a lot of magickal therapists. And if I walked into a Normal therapist and said "I'm an evil monster," they probably wouldn't take me literally enough.

"Hi Baz," Denise says with a smile when the call connects, "can you hear me? How have you been?"

"I'm well, and yourself?"

"I'm doing well, thanks for asking." She lets a beat pass; she's an expert at significant silence. "What do you want to talk about today?"

I could cast my mind back, try and remember what we'd spoken about the week before. But I'm pretty sure it concerned my mother, which she brings up every so often, poking it to test if I'm ready to talk about it. Like hell am I ready to talk about my mother.

"Simon wants to audition for the Great British Bakeoff. Have you heard of it?"  
She smiles. "Of course I have. That sounds like a really great opportunity for Simon!"

"Yeah," I say.

"But I'm seeing something in your face. What am I seeing here?"

I look down at my hands. "I'm...not thrilled about the idea."

"Why?"

I hate these sort of questions. "Well, I'm not sure it's what he really wants."

"Why's that?"

Honestly, you could train a parrot to say the word 'why' and get it licensed as a therapist. My four year old brother loves asking 'why' and he'd likely do it for free.

"Does Simon really seem like the sort for national TV? All the attention would drive him mad. And the pressure; the challenges have gotten a lot harder the past few series, and the judging has been harsher with Mary Berry gone."

"So you're worried it would be hard on him?"

"Yes. And what if he tries out and he never hears back? Or he gets kicked off week one?"

"Why are you protecting him?" She's got a little smile now, but I can tell that internally it's a shit-eating grin. It's one of Denise's favorite things to say, that I try and protect Simon, "the way you wish you could have protected your mother," she'd once said. I'd nearly walked out of the room after that one, and she'd taken it back. But I still hear it every time she says the first part.

I quirk a brow. "Because he needs it. It wasn't too long ago that he couldn't get up off the sofa."

"That was three years ago, Baz. You and I both know that Simon has come a long way in that time. And baking has been a big part of that."

She's right. For months she was trying to find him a hobby. We tried football, but that didn't take. It was just another thing I was better than him at, and he didn't need to be bested in yet another thing by his magickal boyfriend. Writing was a complete non-starter, as was cycling. Bunce even bought him a sodding ukulele at one point, but he would just play a sad song and start crying.

Then I'd had the idea to contact Cook Pritchard and ask her for her recipe for sour cherry scones. I thought maybe he could try to make them, since he'd never quite found their like in London, and what does Snow like more than eating? When he made them, he ate the entire tray before I got a chance to sample. "I think I mixed the dough too much," was all he'd said. "I'm going to try again tomorrow."

And he did. And the next day. On the fourth try, I think he was finally happy with them, not to mention that he'd gotten to eat his Watford daily quota of scones along the way. From there he wanted to try making a chocolate cake, and far be it from this sweet-toothed vampire to stop him. He spent hours looking up new recipes, and there started to be a glint in his eye that I hadn't seen since he lost his magic.

"Simon is a lot stronger than you think. He can handle a lot, especially with your support. I'd challenge you to think about what he could gain from the experience, not what he could lose."

I hear Simon laughing in the other room. My heart still twinges, greedy for that sound and acutely aware of how long I went without hearing it.

And Denise must be so proud of me, because I say words that, by rights, should never come from a Pitch's mouth. "You may be right." 


	2. The dragon in the room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon gets some good news and bad news.

**Baz**

I'm removing my jacket and slipping off my wet shoes when Simon Snow leaps into my arms.

"I got in!" He cries.

It's a good thing I have super-strength, otherwise we'd be toppled over each other in the entryway. When my heart restarts (it seems unfair that vampires should startle) (but when your boyfriend has wings unfolded like a dragon burst out of hell, it happens), I finally understand what he means.

"You're on the show?" I ask.

"I'm on the show!"

I spin him around, and set him down on the ground, holding him at arms' length. I want to look at him; the joy on his face, I want to bottle it up and get drunk on it forever. But I absolutely need to kiss him. And, luckily, I can still feel his smile as I do.

Aleister Crowley, I'm living a charmed life.

"When did you find out?" I ask breathlessly, once my excitement has gotten the better of me.

"I got an email--oh shit, where's my mobile..." and he bounds into the kitchen to retrieve it.

"**It's always in the last place you look**," I say, which may be one of my most used spells these days. Simon's mobile buzzes on the counter. You know, you could just call it, he'd said once. That's what Normals do. But this was faster, and he never complained when it was his wallet or keys gone missing.

He holds the mobile out to me. "Read it aloud, just in case I imagined the whole thing?"

Instinct tells me there's an opportunity to say something snarky here about Simon's reading abilities. It'd been four years since I'd had to hide my feelings for him, but apparently you can't condition yourself to be an arsehole for seven years and then take it back the moment you've gotten a good snogging. I shake the thoughts from my head, and began to read. "Congratulations Simon, you have been selected to compete in Series 11 of the Great British Bake Off. Filming begins on April 11, 2020. You should arrive at Welford Park at 9 o'clock that morning--Crowley, Simon, this is really happening." 

Simon laughs and shakes his head. "I can't believe it."

"Isn't that right when your term's ending? You'll have exams in the middle of the show."

"I'll manage. It's not like I was about to start being top of the class."

I frown, but he has a point. I must admit, now that the shock is wearing off, my primary feeling is of relief. These past few months have been grueling for Simon--interviews with producers, screen tests, even meeting with a psychologist to ensure that he could handle being filmed for 15 hours a day. And on top of that, the actual auditions, baking in real-time in front of judges. He's put easily a hundred hours into this business, and the show hasn't even started. He would've been devastated for it all to come to nothing.

"So anyway, how was your day?" Simon asks brightly. I laugh and pull him close, tuck my arms in under his wings and my chin on top of his head. I kiss his bronze curls, because I can, and because for once, the universe has been kind to Simon Snow.

Now I just have to worry about Paul Hollywood doing the same.

**Simon**

I'd wanted to tell Baz the news first, and then we were, shall I say, celebrating, so I actually didn't try and FaceTime Penny until late that night, late enough that she must have been asleep and didn't pick up the phone. When I finally did tell her, she screamed. Then she'd told Micah, then she'd told her mum, and I think she told half the world before breakfast. I got a text in the middle of class from a number I didn't recognize saying "congratulations Simon!!" It turned out to be Agatha's new number, so I guess she'd told her too.

So with all that fuss I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that now, one week later, I've gotten an email from Headmistress Bunce on behalf of the Coven, detailing rules for keeping the magickal world secret when I'm in the Normal public eye.

"Did they write all this up just for me?" I ask, tugging on my hair and staring at the itemized and sub-itemized list of do's and don'ts, mostly don'ts.

Penny shakes her head. "No, the Coven has always had guidelines when a mage gets famous with the Normals. Like Roald Dahl, or Alan Rickman."

"I'm not a mage, though," I point out.

"Okay, maybe they adapted it a bit for you." Penny pushes her glasses back up her nose as she squints at the document.

"Item 3.1, no spelling the judges, there goes my evil plan," Baz says drolly, and I stick my tongue out at him. He just winks, which should honestly be illegal in mixed company because he's too damn fit.

I try to read the rest of the document, but the writing's really technical and I already had a long day at school, so my brain's not processing it.

Penny frowns at me. "Simon, what are you going to do about your wings?"

Right. My wings. The dragon in the room. Each week I'm on the show, I'll spend Saturday night at a hotel in Berkshire, with a long day before and a long one after. And none of the concealment spells we've tried has ever been able to last an entire weekend.

"I'll drive to Berkshire Sunday morning," Baz says, and I love him for it, because it's mad and he would absolutely do it.

"Wouldn't people think it's strange?" Penny asks.

"Do you have a better idea, Bunce?"

As if on cue, my tail starts twitching, lifting and dropping back onto my chair with a thump. Really, it's a miracle that this hasn't come up before. Living first with Penny and then with Baz, I haven't spent a single day without someone around to spell my wings invisible. 

"Maybe it's time to get rid of them." I mumble.

Baz and Penny go quiet, a rare occurrence. "Are you sure, Simon?"

I shrug. "No. But I can hardly bake worrying that I'm about to grow extra body parts on national TV, can I?"

Baz frowns. As much as he took the mickey about them at first, he likes the wings. The first time surgery had ever come up, he'd argued against it. "What if I get cold at night without your wing draped over me?" His expression had turned to one of mock horror. "What if you start wearing a shirt around the house?"

"I mean, I can't just expect you two to spell me every day forever, that's mental. And this way, I'll be doing it to look forward to something." There is a chance that I go out on week one and I went through a major, life-changing surgery for just two days of convenience, but in that case I'll just have to not go out on week one.

We talk it over for a little bit, but I can tell that Baz wants to talk about it with me alone, so I tell Penny the truth that I'm knackered and promise to keep her updated. I walk her to the door, and as I watch her put on her coat, I think she looks pretty knackered herself. "Take care," I tell her.

"You too," she says with her eyes big and full of something.

I shut the door behind her, turn around to where Baz is sitting on the kitchen counter, and put my hands on my hips. "What do you really think about this?"

He shrugs. He must have picked up the habit from me. "It's your body, your choice."

"Really?"

"Really." He pauses to get the words right. "I just know that it's your last physical connection with magic. I wouldn't want you to regret anything."

I grab both his hands and pull him down from the counter. I wrap my arms and wings around him in a hug. "You, my darling, are my connection with magic. You're all the magic I need."

Baz grips me tight, kisses the top of my head. He loves it when I call him 'darling'.

"I do have one request, though," I say.

"Oh?"

"Will you call Dr. Wellbelove for me? Tonight?" Yes, I'm going to be on TV, and yes I'm going to have to get a lot better at talking to people, but it doesn't need to be tonight. And not with my ex-girlfriend's dad.

"Of course." He takes my hand and walks me over to the couch, and pulls out his mobile. I sit with my legs in his lap; vampire boyfriends need space heaters, especially in the middle of February. And from here, I can hear the faint ringing against Baz's ear.

"Hello, Dr. Wellbelove? Yes, this is Basilton Pitch..."


	3. Biscuit Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon navigates his first weekend in the tent.

**Simon**

"Good morning, Simon!" Paul says genially. He and Prue, Sandi and Noel have been making the rounds from bench to bench, just like I'd always seen on the show. I've been hurrying to start, but I've kept them in the corner of my eye.

"Now Simon, tell us about your biscuit recipe." Prue says. I wonder if they're supposed to say our names a lot, for the audience to get to know us. I can't think about the audience that will watch this someday. Or the cameras pointed at me. Fortunately, I'm pretty good at not thinking about things.

I swallow, and I can almost feel my tail twitching even though it's gone. "I'm making a sour cherry shortbread biscuit. It's based on a recipe I loved at school."

A couple seconds pass. Am I supposed to say something more? What am I supposed to say? Shit.

"Did you enjoy school, Simon?" Sandi asks.

In a moment, I think through my whole list from when I would take the train to Watford: scones and my uniform, the football pitch and the wavering wood, the Mage--that's a trigger for me, so I stop thinking about it immediately. I think about meeting Penny. Meeting Baz. "I did, yeah. Not that my grades reflected that."

Sandi chuckles. "No, nor mine."

"I didn't even go to school," Noel says, "I got kicked out in year 1."

I grin, because this man is every bit as weird as on TV. "I should've been too, probably."

"Well, good luck Simon, can't wait to see how they turn out," Prue says, and then it's just me and the biscuit dough again. I check my timer; an hour to go. This first challenge is a short one, which I'm grateful for. It'd be murder if they started us out on a six-hour megabake like they might have later in the show.

I love working with dough; it's rough and physical in a way that you don't get with fiddly puddings. When I first started learning how to make bread, it was more of a fistfight than an art. I would smack the dough around like it was half the kids in my old care homes, but unlike my fights as a kid, something good would actually come out of it. I'm no artist, not like Baz with his violin, but it feels good to bring something nice into the world.

When my biscuits are in the fridge to chill for a minute, and I'm actually getting a breather, someone behind me yells "oh fuck!"

I instinctively turn my head. The bloke behind me, I think his name's Ciaran, is crouched down. Two other crew with cameras has swooped over to catch the action. "I forgot to turn my fucking oven on!"

My stomach clenches; my oven is on, I know it's on, but still I have to check. What a nightmare. How fast did these things take to preheat? If it happened to me at home, I'd drag Baz over and have him cast **some like it hot**.

"How much time do they need?" I call back to Ciaran.

"Twenty minutes, but I'm dipping mine with chocolate." He's got his hands on his head, like he'd be grabbing at his hair if he had more of it.

"Bakers, you have thirty minutes!" Noel calls out from the front of the tent.

"My oven's at 170, you can use the other rack." I pull my two sheets of twelve biscuits out of the fridge and start consolidating them onto one sheet. "It'll take a few minutes extra, but probably still faster than waiting for your oven."

"Thanks mate, you're a damn lifesaver." Honestly, they may have to edit Ciaran out of the entire show. Maybe he didn't read the section of the instructions where we're supposed to limit our cursing, daytime TV and all. If he did, though, he'd probably make for great television; he's got a thick North London accent and his face is broad and expressive like a cartoon character.

He's making something with coconut extract, I can smell it from here. I hope the smells don't mix in the oven (cherry and coconut don't really go together, do they?) (too late for that now.)

When both trays are in and the timer's set, "Thank you so much. I feel like such an idiot," Ciaran says.

I keep my voice low, because I'm pretty sure there's at least three cameras on us. "This place is chaos, could've happened to any of us."

"All the same, thanks mate." He claps me on the shoulder.

My biscuits come out of the oven with five minutes to spare. I don't have any plans to make them look nicer, which now seems like a mistake. I pull them off the tray, fan them with the other tray that I didn't end up using. Everything around me is so loud, and I don't normally get adrenaline rushes like this unless some dark creature is trying to do me in. At the last possible second, I dust the biscuits with icing sugar and arrange them on the plate.

Now the judging. I can't get the lump out of my throat. Being towards the back seems like a curse now, and I can barely listen to the other bakes getting judged. Even as I'm consumed with anticipation, I still get startled when everyone crowds around my bench.

"These are the cherry-coconut biscuits then?" Paul asks with a sly smile. I can't believe he saw that, with all that was going on.

"Something like that, yeah," my laugh is high and nervous and I sound like an idiot.

Paul breaks one in half, murmuring "texture's right", and eats it. Prue follows suit.

Prue frowns. "I wouldn't have done the icing sugar, I think it takes away from the sourness of the cherry and makes it too sweet for me."

"But it melts in the mouth, and it's well-baked, even with so many things in the oven at once. That's a nice biscuit. Well done, Simon." Paul says with a curt nod.

"Thank you." And as soon as they've moved on, I try one of the biscuits. They're pretty good, icing sugar and all. Maybe this weekend is going to be alright.

***

It's already Sunday afternoon the first time I'm able to take a full breath. It takes me that long to notice the tightness in my chest, like I've been taking half-breaths all weekend.

I'm sitting in the break area, where the contestants go when we're not in the tent. Everyone is getting pulled out in stages to be interviewed about how they think the showstopper went. Some people are talking, others are sitting in their own little world of silence. I'm thinking I'm not sure which I'd rather be, but then the choice gets made for me.

Lynne, an older lady with hair I'm not sure whether to call brown or grey, sits down on the chair next to me and puts her hand on my knee. "Simon, I thought your mushroom was incredible. Who taught you to bake like that?"

Our showstopper challenge was to make a molded biscuit sculpture, which was a nightmare to practice at home. I'd done a mushroom, with a trunk made out of pieces of gingerbread cut to intersect, and a big gingersnap dome on top. The gingersnap was drooping a lot by judging time, but I hadn't completely embarrassed myself either.

"Thanks. And, well, I taught myself; books and lots of instructional videos on YouTube," I shrug.

She clasps her hands together. "And here I would've thought your mum or your gran had been teaching you to bake since you could walk! Are your family bakers?"

And here comes the awkward part. I hate answering these sorts of questions, mostly because the other person feels so mortified for asking. I've found the best way to work through it is to put a positive spin, and then change the subject as quickly as possible. "I don't have a family, actually. But I love to bake for my friends and classmates. How long have you been baking, then?"

It's usually about 50/50 on if they'll take the bait and move to happier topics, or if they'll still stumble and flounder. Lynne puts her hand on my shoulder, but that's her only reaction. "Almost fifty years now. I learned from my nan."

"That's great. Got any kids?"

"Two girls and a boy," she says proudly. She pulls out her phone to show me a picture. "That's Nicola, Poppy, and Damian. And that"--she swipes through her pictures right in front of me, which is brave, and I notice quite a lot of pictures of bakes until she stops at a chubby-cheeked toddler--"is Isla, my granddaughter."

"That's lovely," I say honestly.

"Have you got anyone special?" She asks, with just a note of caution in case the answer is no again.

My stomach clenches. It's 2020, and yet it's still a risk admitting you've got a boyfriend, especially to someone from her generation. But she asked a direct question, and she's been nice enough so far. "My partner, Baz," I tell her,

She smiles. "Do you have a picture of him? I've got no memory for names so I need to see faces to remember."

That little knot in my stomach goes away, and I pull out my phone and scroll through my pictures. Like hers, it's full of bakes, but it's still mostly Baz. The thing is, Baz doesn't smile for photos, at least not when he knows you're taking a photo. It works for him, of course, being a tall dark and handsome rich boy with a little pout on his face; he's still the most photogenic person I've ever seen. But I've made it my personal mission to take as many candid photos of Baz as I can.

I scroll through quite a lot of photos, and Merlin he's handsome, and I miss him, and that's ridiculous because I only saw him yesterday morning, but it's true. I settle on one of him that I took on the sly at our favorite curry place, laughing at some story Micah was telling. You can't see his fangs, no matter what he thinks, so it's safe to show to a Normal. "This is him," I pass the phone over to her.

"What a handsome young man!" Lynne exclaims. "You must make a lovely couple. How long have you been together?"

"Four years. He encouraged me to take up baking," _and paid for all the expensive ingredients_, I leave out.

"I hope I get to meet him someday," she says, with no self-consciousness about the fact that one of us may be going home today and not coming back. I don't think it'll be me--they liked my shortbread, I came fifth in the technical--and I don't think it'll be her either. She came sixth in technical and her shaped biscuit design was lovely. But still, everyone in that tent is a great baker, so there's a chance.

It occurs to me that I'd like Baz to meet her too.

Paul and Prue have made their decisions, and we're being moved back into the tent to hear our fate. Lynne stays close to me, putting her arm around me affectionately. I don't know if that's normal for people her age or for mums or if she's just a very touchy person, but I can't say I mind the contact. It's quite nice, actually.

"Bakers, what an incredible first week in the tent, you've all done amazing things so far," Noel says. "I've got the great job of announcing our first Star Baker, which is Gemma!"

I clap; I didn't really get to meet Gemma but she seems nice enough. But suddenly, I hate that they do that part first because I can't handle the applause. I just want to know if I'm coming back next week or not.

Sandi has a sad smile as she says, "Which means I've got the horrible job of announcing the person not coming through to next week is..." and that two seconds of pause lasts absolutely forever "...Mike."

I'm not even aware of my body as I shake people's hands, give hugs--when did I become the sort of person who hugs strangers? I'm pulled out for interviews again and I can't even remember what I've said immediately after I've said it.

"Is it alright if I call my boyfriend?" I ask the cameraman, and he agrees, as long as he gets to film it.

It takes only one ring before he picks up and says "Snow." He's got no emotion in his voice at all; he knows he could be getting good or bad news.

"I got through to the next round!" I say into the phone.

"Of course you did, Snow, you gorgeous disaster," Baz says.

"Er, love, you're on speakerphone," I say nervously.

"Then take me off speakerphone," Baz says lightly, "so I can tell you how proud I am of you."

I cover the phone with my other hand and whisper to the cameraman "Can we stop filming now?"

He laughs and pulls the camera away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to Moriah (of the no-AO3 account) for beta reading! Feel free to share any favorite bakes to be included in Cake Week!


	4. Cake Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get technical in the technical.

**Simon**

As I pull the gingham cloth off my ingredients, and start to read through the recipe, I hear another baker (Annie's her name) say what we must surely all be thinking:

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

The ingredients are nothing extraordinary, really. Eggs, butter, flour, sugar. No obscure type of Lithuanian nut like I was worried about when Sandi first announced the challenge. The problem is that the cake is made by rolling layers of partially cooked batter onto a rolling pin as makeshift spit and piling them on until it has rings like a tree trunk. So just your average everyday baking, really.

"Have you ever heard of baumkuchen?" I ask Amara, the girl in front of me.

She gives me a thousand-watt smile. "Yeah, they're actually pretty common in Japan, funny enough! I had it a couple of times when I was there."

Well that didn't make me feel any better. I catch the eye of Annie, one bench ahead of Amara. "Have you heard of it?" I ask her.

"Never in my life," she calls back.

I look around the room; from the faces everyone's making, I think Annie and I are in the majority here. Lynne's gone pale, and she's holding the recipe really close to her face, as if the instructions get clearer on closer inspection.

Well, if the batter includes meringue, which it looks like it does, step 1 is separating the eggs, and I can handle that.

It's a weird double reality; on one level, I'm fretting over a new recipe just like I would at home, but on the other I'm being asked to narrate my bake by various people with cameras. And I can hear the other contestants doing the same. I've seen the show, of course, loads of times, but it's hard to imagine that this experience will one day turn into that. For one thing, there's no thrumming little background music.

"Thankfully, the batter has got baking powder in it, so I'm not just relying on the eggs to get a rise," I say as my mixer whirrs chaotically.

I fold together the meringue and flour: now comes the hard part. I slather the batter onto the pan, and wrap my rolling pin in a sheet baking paper. I put on the gloves they provided for this challenge; they'll impair my mobility but I'm not keen on burning my fingers.

Noel pops up just as I'm rolling the hot cake around the pin. "How's it going?"

"This is one of the weirder bakes I've ever done." I say.

"Wow, you really do need those gloves, don't you?" Noel says. "Like, you could really injure yourself."

"Oh yeah. I'm not sure what'd happen if we all dropped out week two."

"The gloves were Paul's idea. Prue didn't want to, especially since we had to special order a pair for Artem," Noel says with an impish grin.

I snort. Artem is a burly Russian bloke made entirely of muscle. He looks tough enough to do the challenge gloves-free and not even be bothered. He must be at the gym constantly. He's not my type (he's not Baz), but I can still appreciate the look of a well-built man.

"Sandi asked Paul for a pair, you know, just in case, but they didn't come in child-size either."

"What about you, Noel? Care to give me a hand?" I ask as I pour out another layer of batter onto the pan. I'm getting better at the banter, I think. Hanging around Baz and Penny when they're together will give you a lot of practice.

Next thing I know, Noel's gone.

The recipe calls for exactly 15 layers, which means the challenge gets pretty repetitive, and I have to make a note of how many layers I've done. My fifteenth is wafer-thin, but it'll do. And if I'm even going to think about getting the whole thing covered in chocolate before time, it's gonna have to go in the freezer.

I check and double check which freezer I'm meant to use--I've seen this show before, I know what sort of disasters can happen. Amara, Annie and I are all meant to share, and Annie's there when I get there. She holds open the freezer door for me.

"Thanks," I say. "The worst is over, yeah?"

"Chocolate in this weather? I'm not so sure," Annie smiles wryly and shakes her head. She's got wavy blonde hair that's in a tight plait.

Annie seems nice enough, but I haven't really talked to her much. She was having real trouble last week, though, second-to-last in the technical and her signature biscuits pale and underbaked. It occurs to me that I haven't talked to her because I assume she isn't going to be around long. Which is exactly what I'd do to the boys like me growing up, shuffling from home to home. Why waste friendship on someone who's going to leave? When I think of it like that, it seems a little messed up. And I've got a few minutes before I need to start melting my chocolate.

"What do you do in real life, Annie?"

She props herself against the fridge door. "I'm a construction manager, and an amateur filmmaker."

"And an amateur baker? That's amazing. How do you manage it all? I can barely get myself to class in the morning."

"I don't," she laughs. "Haven't you seen me? I'm shit at time management."

"Nah, you're doing great. That must be a busy life, though. Do you ever get time to relax?"

Her face changes. "I've got to work on my chocolate." She scurries back to her bench.

I go back to my bench, and I've got no idea what just happened. But I've got to do my chocolate as well. I pull my cake out as late as I can bear, and pour the chocolate over it, and all of a sudden I get it.

Merlin and Morgana, I sounded like I was coming on to her.

"Bakers, that is time! Please put your baumkuchen on the gingham altar behind the photo of yourself!"

I make a beeline to Annie, cake in arms, because that seems more urgent at the moment.

I can already see the face Penny will make when I tell her this story (do I have to tell her this story?) She always said I was utterly clueless around women, including Agatha. She says I've done a service to society, not dating women anymore.

"I'm so sorry," I stammer, "if you thought--that sounded--I've got a boyfriend."

Annie laughs raucously. "Don't worry about it, Simon. I promise not to tell my wife about it," and she winks at me.

I feel giddy with relief, which mixes strangely with my nerves about the judging that's imminent. I sit down next to Annie, with Lynne on my other side. Lynne grabs my hand and squeezes.

Prue and Paul come back in, and as luck would have it, my cake is the on the far left side. "Shall we start with this one, then, Prue?"

It feels like Paul is cutting me open as he saws through my cake. "Cuts through nicely, and we've got good definition on the rings," he turns the slice on its side and starts counting.

"I'd call that fourteen and a half, that last layer's pretty thin, but the taste is good. We're off to a good start."

And I have to keep my face as still as I can, so Paul won't know the cake is mine, but inside I'm grinning.

***

That night I'm flat on my back on the hotel bed--which is nice to be able to do, ever since the wings are gone--and so tired that I'm worried I won't get back up to brush my teeth and turn out the lights.

I dial Baz's number, and after several rings I hear a thrum of background noise. "Hello?" Baz practically yells into the phone.

"Baz, it's me." I say with confusion and some concern. Have I got the wrong number?

"Hold on, Snow, I'm walking outside." He says, and I hear the chaos almost immediately go away.

"Sorry about that," He says in a normal speaking voice.

"Where are you?"

"Dev and Niall took me out. How did it go?"

I tell him all about the baumkuchen, how mental it was but that it ultimately tasted pretty good. "I got fifth again," I say because I know he's curious but too polite to ask. "Never gonna make that one again, though."

"Though it does seem like it might be easier to do with automation," he says, which is how we talk about magic in public. "Maybe **You spin me right round**?"

I roll my eyes, and I groan a bit so Baz can hear me. "You and your new wave music. There's no way that spell still holds water."

"Maybe we'll have to try sometime, when this is all over. Who took first?"

"Amara, cause she's the only one who'd actually seen one of them before. Have I told you about her?" I ask.

"She's the music teacher, right?"

"I'm not convinced that she's not part pixie. She's so cheery and sweet, and her laugh is so high, it's like a squeak."

"Sounds delightful. Let's have her round for tea this week."

"Honestly, Baz, she's the exact opposite of you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," he says in a low voice that still makes my stomach twist. What a waste of time, spending all those years not being in love with him.

Suddenly, there's noise on the other side of the line, and it sounds like there's a struggle. I bolt upright. "Baz, are you okay?" It only takes one time of him being kidnapped by numpties for me to worry for life.

"Hiya, Simon!" It's Niall's voice on the phone now. "Baz and Dev are fighting,"

He must have put me on speakerphone, because I can hear Dev shout, "We took you out to get you pissed, not to stand outside and talk to your boyfriend!" His voice is hitched, like he's straining, and it occurs to me that one of them may have the other in a headlock. Not sure which one, though.

"How's bake-off going?" Niall asks.

"Alright so far, yeah." I say, but I'm more listening to the sounds of the struggle going on in the background. It makes me grin. "Do you need to break them up?"

"Probably, yeah. Dev will feel better when we've gotten your boyfriend a little drunk."

I raise my voice. "Baz, if you can hear this, have fun and I love you! We'll talk tomorrow."

More scuffle, and then Baz's voice comes in clearly, like he's grabbed the phone back. "Good night, Snow, I'll see you tomorrow."

Dev calls out "break a leg, Snow!" It makes me think about how once upon a time, he would have meant it in the literal sense.

I say "I love you" one more time because I can, and then hang up. I'm grateful that Dev and Niall have taken him out; I was worried Baz was going to sulk around the flat all weekend. When I'm alone, I can shut off my thoughts. When he's alone, all he does is think.

I should also be grateful that Dev and Niall got me sitting up, so I can actually brush my teeth, change into pajamas, shut off the lights, and fall instantly asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna try and finish this before the school year starts. Love to Moriah for beta-ing and love to all those who've commented or left kudos! Here's the recipe and video I used for baumkuchen: https://www.chopstickchronicles.com/german-tree-cake-baumkuchen/


	5. Bread week

**Simon**

Time's gone funny. When I wake up in the morning, I try and remember what day it is, and I almost always guess wrong. But it's a good kind of funny, like a dream you know is a dream but you're okay with it.

Bread week went well. The brief for the signature was a flavored cottage loaf, so I went for my old favorite, lavender and lemon. Paul and Prue have seen the flavor combination before, I know they have, but they still acted like them together was some sort of revelatory experience. I honestly thought they'd make me star baker, but that (rightfully) went to Clare and her cinnamon swirl bread; it's so hard to fill a bread like that and not have it weigh the whole thing down. I haven't really gotten to know Clare yet, but she seems nice enough. I should chat to her more. You know what they say about star baker on bread week; any longer I might be around, I can expect that she will be too.

The real shocker was Amara. Bright, twinkly Amara, who took star baker in cake week with her baumkuchen and her ultra-detailed corgi-themed cake, was sent home this week. "Kinda feels like no one's safe, innit?" I remember saying in the exit interviews.

Paul didn't say anything to me after the fact, just shook my hand and said "Well done this week, Simon," but there was an implication in his icy blue eyes. _You've done well, but don't get too comfortable._ It makes me shiver just thinking about it. I should have another go at my signature for next week tonight. (Even though I should definitely spend the evening studying for my Statistics for Psychologists class, which I was daft enough to put off until my last semester.)

I'm not sure I'll get used to having two lives, lived in parallel. One day I'm stressing about exams and the next I'm fretting over cake. And then the weekend is over and it's back to classes and tube rides and falling asleep on the couch with my head in Baz's lap, him reading a paper he's propped on my shoulder.

As fun as the show can be, I know the life where I'm with Baz is the one I like better though. I don't know how long I'll be on Bake-off, but I plan on keeping Baz for a lot longer than that. Forever, actually, if he'll let me.

**Baz**

Snow has no idea what I'm doing on the weekends while he's away. What I'm plotting.

As soon as he gets on the train to Berkshire Saturday morning, I take to my books.

It's slow going. I wanted to ask Bunce for help, since she had to do similar research, but her and Simon's little no-secrets policy seems to largely still be in effect, and I can't risk her snitching.

Her mother, Headmistress Bunce, has much more discretion and also has control of the Watford library. One of the first things she did after becoming headmistress was return my mother's books to my family, freeing them from their prison lining the Mage's shelves and giving him credibility he didn't deserve. Ever since, I've been very fond of Mitali Bunce. She'll send me whatever books I ask her for.

There are certain obstacles to consider, chief among them Simon's lack of magic. But I'm clever and I have magic, enough for the both of us. (On both counts.) And who knows how many more weekends Simon will be filming this crazy show, so I want make the most of the privacy to get a head start.

He deserves the whole damn sun, and I want to give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best way to get through writer's block is to write a mini-chapter, yeah? (Hopefully) more coming soon.


	6. Moroccan Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not well in pastryville.

Sandi's practically bouncing as she greets us. "Good morning, bakers, and welcome to your showstopper challenge on this, our first ever Moroccan week. For this challenge Paul and Prue would like you to bake a reinterpretation of the Moroccan favorite, m’hanncha."

"Now a m’hanncha is traditionally a ring of phyllo dough filled with almond paste and cinnamon and arranged in a spiral." Noel helpfully draws a spiral in the air as he talks.

"You can make the flavours your own, but your pastry must be crisp and the final product should be at least thirty centimeters in diameter, ready for a party."

"You've got three and a half hours. On your marks--"

"Get set--"

"Bake!"

I take a deep breath before I dive in. The signature yesterday was the first time I've done pastry on the show, and I wasn't happy with it. The worst is when the bake is over and you taste it and you know you could have done better, that it's gone better every time you've practiced at home. Now it's phyllo pastry, which is even harder.

I take another breath. Pastry is basically just layers of flour and butter. And if there's one thing I know best--better than how to wield a sword, better than the smell of Baz's shampoo, certainly better than anything I've managed to learn at university--it's butter.

The tent is so noisy, first with mixers whirring and then with bakers whapping butter into sheets and folding it into their dough. I'm planning to do the book fold like I've seen Paul recommend before on the show. Then, one by one, everyone sets their dough to chill and things get oddly quiet.

This is the strangest part of baking--the waiting. If I were at home I could do something else, put on a show or go for a walk or something. But here's there's nothing but waiting.

I'm not very patient. In my old life, I hardly ever had a reason to be. You don't exactly sit still when charging a horde of worsegers with a sword. And in my life before that, in the care homes, waiting wasn't useful because there was no expectation of something changing or getting better.

Clare notices me pulling at my hair and waves me over to her bench. "Fancy a cup of tea?" She asks. "I've got twenty minutes until my next fold."

"That'd be great, yeah." I say with feeling.

"I've got water in the kettle for one more, who's free?" she calls out, and within a second Ciaran's made his way over.

Clare's got an openness that I have to admire, and a big broad smile. She's doing well this week, which probably makes it a little easier to be nice to people. "What have you got planned?" she asks me and Ciaran.

I shrug. "Mine's pretty standard, but I'm swapping the orange blossom water with rose water." Come to think of it, I should probably stop doing such floral flavors. I don't want to get saddled with some rosebud reputation, and it's only a matter of time until one of the bakes comes out like I've made it with Penny's hand lotion.

Ciaran looks excited. "Get this: baklava m'hanncha. Pistachios and honey and cinnamon too."

If Clare thinks either of our ideas are bad, she's too polite to let on. She just pours us each a cup of tea. I'm peripherally aware of the cameras filming us, but this is probably not interesting enough to make the show.

"Cheers," Ciaran says gratefully as he takes his cup. "Thanks for sharing, too."

"It's habit; hard to stop being a mum, even when your kids aren't there." I notice she's managed to attract the two youngest bakers in the room, even if she's barely got five years on us.

I glance over to Lynne; she's working on her fillings with a concerned expression, her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth.

I think the tea is supposed to be calming me down, but it's not working. It feels so wrong to be sitting having a cuppa in the middle of the showstopper challenge.

"How much time have we got?" I ask, but answer my own question with the timer on Clare's bench. Two hours forty three minutes. How many folds did I do on this recipe in the past? How long had I waited in between them?

I flash back to the signature yesterday, with Paul saying I hadn't built up the layers enough.

Fuck it.

"I've gotta go," I say to Clare and Ciaran and set my mug back down on her bench. I retrieve my dough from the fridge, and prod it gently. Still a little warm, maybe, but I can't afford to check too closely or I'll heat it up with my own hands. I start rolling.

***

When I bring my m'hanncha up to the front, I get fixed with an icy blue stare. All he says is "What happened?"

"I didn't wait long enough between the pastry folds," I mumble.

"Yeah, it's clear your butter was too warm, because all the lamination has literally leaked out of the pastry." Paul scrapes the underside of the bake with his knife, and cuts a slice for himself and Prue. The "snake pastry" actually looks quite nice when you cut into it, but even from the sound of the cutting I can tell this isn't going to be good.

Paul chews thoughtfully, "just as I expected, you've lost the layers along with the lamination."

"It's a shame, because the flavors are good." Prue adds.

"More patience next time, I think," Paul says with a little sly smile. I nod, because what else am I supposed to do, and snatch my bake off the table.

The camera people take me outside and record me growling in frustration for several minutes and before I know it we're back in the tent, all seated in a row and waiting for our fates.

Artem wins Star Baker, and he looks more thrilled than I've ever seen him. He deserves it too; his chebakia, these deep fried sesame biscuits from the technical challenge, were beautiful and so delicate seeing they were made by his brawny hands. I reach over to him--Ciaran's sitting between us--and clap him on the shoulder.

And now it's time for the bad stuff.

_Don't be me don't be me don't be me_, I chant in my head. If I still had my magic, it might've bubbled up from somewhere and made it true, even if it fucked everything up in a hundred meter radius. But I don't have magic anymore, and I have to just hope like everyone else does.

"The baker who'll not be joining us next week is..."

_Don't be me don't be me don't be me_

"Lynne."

Oh.

Lynne shrugs her shoulders and her face fills with a smile she can't mean. Sandi's wrapped her in a hug, and I can't help but sit here with my jaw hanging slack.

Surprisingly, Paul comes right over to shake my hand. "Better luck next time, Simon. Keep practicing this week." He means it kindly, but it's still a big fucking joke since I have exams this week and if I don't study, they may not be the last ones I ever take.

"I will," I say distractedly. Lynne has made her way over to me through a wall of hugs.

As soon as she's close enough to hear me, I mumble "it should've been me."

She cups my face in her hands. "Don't say that. I made it as far as I could go, Simon, and I'm happy with that."

I pull her into a hug, because we hug on this show, and Lynne has always been the easiest one to touch. "I'm gonna miss you."

"I'll see you at the final picnic. It's not like I've died. And I'm going to have you round for tea sometime, you and your bloke."

Is it just me or does she look a bit like Ebb? An older version, if Ebb had gotten the chance to get older. _Trigger_, I name it in my mind like my therapist taught me to do. And I put it in my box of things not to think about, at least not until I've got more time on my hands.

"That sounds lovely. Well the way things are going, I should be very free after next week," I say with only a hint of frustration.

She doesn't even acknowledge my tone, she just smiles like how I've seen Daphne smile at her children. "I'll be rooting for you."


	7. Cooking with fire

**Baz**

It's easy to tell when Snow isn't in bed. He twitches in his dreams, and when he's having a nightmare he whimpers too. And until recently, he had several extra appendages to flail around and jab me with in the middle of the night. It's downright miserable sharing a bed with Snow. But he's so warm, and I love him, and I grew up memorizing the sounds of his breathing in the night. So even when I'm asleep, I notice when he's not there.

I pull myself out of bed and squint as I walk into the lit kitchen. Vampires can see in the dark, obviously, but it leaves me even more blinded than a normal person when I step into the light. It's very metaphoric and a right pain in the arse.

Simon Snow is leaning over the counter, kneading bread dough. Again. The kitchen's a mess, which makes me guess this isn't the first bake he's made tonight.

"Hey," I say gently, because I'm not sure he's realized I'm here. And sure enough, he whips his head around, and I see his dough-crusted hand reaching for his hip, like he's trying to call the Sword of Mages that used to hang invisibly there. He catches himself, and the tension slips from his shoulders.

"Hey," he responds.

I check the clock on the oven. 1.53 a.m. "Don't you have an exam in the morning, Snow?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think you would benefit from sleeping before the exam?" I say, keeping my voice light and dry.

He rubs his eyes with the backs of his wrists. "I wanted to get this proving hours ago, so I could bake it before bed. I wanted to get it in the same timeframe as it'll be in the tent, and that's all gone to shit."

"How long of a prove does it need?" I ask. "I'll bake it."

"I can do it," Snow says gruffly.

"I know you can. But I am very clever and well-educated, so I can also turn an oven off and on."

He growls at me, and not in the good way. I change my tactic. I'm still learning Snow's language; the phrase I want to say most often, _I love you and I'm worried about you and your happiness means the world to me_, is still the hardest one to translate.

I bring my hand up to his hair; he hasn't gotten dough globs in it this time, but that's not a given. I twist my fingers through his curls, and he leans into the touch. "Simon, you need to sleep."

Snow yawns as if on command, big and showy, and his adam's apple bobs just a little. It's so much I can't keep myself from pressing a kiss to his neck.

"I am tired," He admits. He shapes the dough ball and sets it into a tin. "It needs about thirty minutes prove, and then 35 minutes to bake. You'll keep an eye on it?"

And that's it; I've won. Snow washes his hands and comes with me to get ready for bed.

My bedtime routine takes considerably longer than his (of course), and so when I exit the bathroom he's already laying on his side, facing toward me. His eyes are out of focus, staring at something a billion miles away. He also doesn't seem to be trying very hard to get to sleep.

"What are you thinking?" I say as I climb into bed. I'm a little scared to say it. When we were first together, I wanted to ask it every minute. I was scared of the answer, and that made the urge to ask even stronger.

I think he would shrug if he could, but it's an awkward motion laying down. "Not much," he lies. He's still looking out at nothing, and he feels so far that I can't help but reach out and touch him to make sure he's there. "What is it, Simon?" I say, because I only call him that when we're being soft with each other, and it's not beneath me to use that for my own ends.

"Should I have waited a few years before trying out for bakeoff?"

I know he had a rough week. He didn't want to talk about it much--when does Simon ever want to talk?--but I know that one of his friends had been kicked off. And it's clear from the mess in the kitchen that he's stressed about this upcoming week.

"No, because they wanted you now," I reason.

He doesn't say anything for a long while.

"Reckon I'll get some sleep, then," and he turns to sleep on his other side.

I draw light circles on his back and listen to his breath even and slow. Snow says his favorite part of life without wings is how easy it makes it for me to scratch his back. Since he mentioned it, I've tried to make a point of doing it every night. I'm glad he's falling asleep. I'd cast **sweet dreams are made of this** on him, but Snow hates spells being put on him so he only agrees to that after a particularly bad nightmare.

When I'm sure he's asleep, I climb out of bed and go back in the kitchen. It's 2:18. Crowley, I have an exam tomorrow too.

I hold my wand aloft. "**Clean as a whistle! Spick and span! So clean you can eat off the floor!**" That last one is the closest modern spellcasting has come to acknowledging germ theory, which is alarming. The stray bits of dough and batter stuck to the bottom of mixing bowls vanish, as does the flour that Snow spilled on the floor. **Ship shape and Bristol fashion** puts all the left out ingredients back in their proper place.

Now the half an hour proving period Snow asked for has passed. I check the tin and I'm satisfied; you can't date a baker for four years and live with him for two without getting some idea of when bread has risen properly. I realize I neglected to preheat the oven. That's even later that I'll be staying up, then.

I pause. I've been working on baking spells, more as an intellectual exercise than anything. And it's risky to use one I've never tried before, but I am a Pitch, a fire-worker, and a very good mage.

"**Now you're cooking with fire**!" The bread rises a little more; the crust hardens and turns golden brown. I leave it in the tin and head back to bed. It's fine, I reassure myself. It's only part one of two, and he'll still have a chance to practice the second half. He'll hardly know the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this fic needed more Baz.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in over a decade, let me know any comments/questions/suggestions. Thanks for reading!


End file.
